


Baby, Say You'll Always Keep Me

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2017-12-10 18:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fast forward exactly six glorious, whirlwind months of courtship, dating and eventual domesticity, and here they are, living together in a small flat in east London, Harry planning Liam’s demise because he’s making them go for a run on their <i>half-year anniversary</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, Say You'll Always Keep Me

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought I'd write this pair, but here we are! This is literally just an excuse for AU domesticity fluff inspired by such great moments as 'excuse me, Liam,' this weird instance of [neck-nuzzling](http://cantgetnoworseee.tumblr.com/post/49642178159/liamzone-x), and whatever the hell [this was](http://24.media.tumblr.com/a03a8da395b557e549e039211b063d03/tumblr_mm91gdFmiY1rqvriio2_250.gif). Thank you to the amazing [sunfair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfair) for the beta job and to my lovelies on Tumblr for inspiring/encouraging this. (ღ˘⌣˘ღ)

It’s 7:35 on Sunday morning when Liam’s alarm goes off for the fourth time.

Harry lets out a guttural groan where he’s lying face-first in the depths of his pillow, alone in their bed. Liam, of course, had already woken up to the first bleeding alarm forty minutes ago. Harry knows this because he’d felt a kiss to the back of his head followed by the bed dipping and settling beneath him, the silence Liam’d left behind him lulling Harry into a false serenity.

Every ten minutes since then, Liam’s mobile had buzzed violently and blared another grating wake-up call designed specifically to keep Harry from sleeping in through their weekly morning run.

Harry’s going to kill him. Today is absolutely going to be the day he kills him. He burrows his face deeper into the soft, welcoming fabric of his cushion (1,000 thread count Egyptian bloody _cotton_ , made for sacred, uninterrupted slumber) and pushes the sides of it against his ears to block out the noise, but the obnoxious _beep beep beep beep_ of Liam’s phone seeps through nonetheless. Harry gives up, shoving himself up the mattress to reach over and turn the noise off with a grunt and begrudging swipe of his thumb. He would turn off the _next_ ten alarms Liam has inevitably set, but the phone locks itself and of course Harry doesn’t know his boyfriend’s password precisely for mornings like this.

He sets the phone down blearily and drops his head back to the bed, furrowing his eyebrows and pushing out his bottom lip like the petulant child he knows he’s being. He can hear Liam chattering away on the home phone in their living room -- probably to his mum, because his entire family are early rising freaks of nature -- and it makes him glare daggers at the bedroom door.

Harry despises physical activity with a passion he didn’t really know he had in him until he’d met Liam. Liam who was always running or lifting weights or kicking around a football. Even when Liam was standing still, he wasn’t _really_ standing still -- buzzing in his spot, gesturing wildly with his arms, sometimes bouncing on the soles of his feet if he’s feeling animated enough. Of course, the cruel irony is that Liam’s “active streak” is what had appealed to Harry in the first place. The cliché of opposites attract: where Harry was slow and languid and gradual, Liam was quick and bold and _immediate_ , sending a rush of excitement through Harry.

It can all be traced back to (and subsequently blamed on) Harry’s best mate Zayn, which is true of most things in his life.

Liam had been Zayn’s personal trainer when Harry met him. Zayn had been trying to gain muscle weight and tone up his noodle limbs and Harry, being the excellent friend that he is, had tagged along for moral support -- he’d even worn his pristine, never-before-used gym kit and styled his curls in a way that said _ready for physical exertion!_ He’d wound up sitting on the edge of a treadmill without ever breaking a sweat, leisurely guzzling on his blackcurrant gatorade while he watched Liam work Zayn half to death on the Weight Bench of Doom.

Liam had captivated Harry off-the-bat. His hair was buzzed at the sides, thicker and higher near the middle, very nearly a fauxhawk. His muscle definition was ludicrous, from the flex of his broad shoulders, strong back, and sculpted torso right down to his V cut, thick thighs and the curve of his sturdy calves. He’d had a sporadic splattering of tattoos on his arms -- four bold arrows up one, a quirky feather on the other, and cryptic script from the side of his elbow down to his wrist, _everything I wanted but nothing I’ll ever need_. It was all very... bloke-y. But for all Liam's exaggerated lad-like qualities, his eyes were remarkably earnest, squinching ridiculously when he laughed along with the rest of his face and it was the warmth of those moments that made Harry, quite literally, weak in his already wonky knees.

Fast forward exactly six glorious, whirlwind months of courtship, dating and eventual domesticity, and here they are, living together in a small flat in east London, Harry planning Liam’s demise because he’s making them go for a run on their _half-year anniversary_. They made a pact not to make a big deal of the whole thing -- to ignore it altogether in hopes of 'subverting heteronormative relationship ideals' (admittedly inspired by Harry’s pretentious Intro to Soc class on Tuesdays and Thursdays). They agreed to treat it like any other twenty-four hour time period they spend together, but Liam forcing them to _exercise_ first thing in the morning is a bit much, even for Harry. In any case, he wants Liam’s imminent death to be quick and painless, because he did love Liam once, many, many intrusive wake-up calls ago.

Speak of the devil.

“Morning, sunshine,” Liam calls brightly, coming into the bedroom in nothing but his soft grey joggers hanging low on his hips. Harry might be delirious from lack of sleep, but he swears there are literal slowmotion droplets of water running down the crevices of his boyfriend’s smooth, toned chest and right down into his perfectly inverted belly button. He doesn’t know where they would have come from -- Liam wouldn’t have showered pre-run or had the time to work up a sweat -- but all Harry knows is that he wants to throw something at him for looking like a cross between a bloody Adidas advert and Calvin Klein model at 8 in the bloody morning. “I was going to resort to a blowjob to wake you, but I see my alarms finally worked their magic.”

Harry grumbles into his pillow, making no effort to use real words yet. He’s not going to be energized by the empty hope of a morning hummer when he’s long become acquainted with Liam’s weird and completely unnecessary no-sucking-before-running rule, because apparently giving and getting head takes up _too much energy_.

Liam’s back flexes as he grabs a white shirt from the dresser and pulls it over his head. He turns back to Harry and claps his hands like a footie coach rounding up his players. “C’mon, babe, time for breakfast! If you get up and dressed now we can be out of here before 9:00.”

Harry wants to respond that Liam is mental and that they should probably break up for a few hours, but Liam’s already made his way out of their bedroom and Harry can hear him whistling _Journey_ in the kitchen. A slow smile tugs at Harry’s lips and he lets out a quiet laugh because, for the price of going for a run at an ungodly hour on their sixth month anniversary... well, he gets _this_. He gets Liam making him bacon and eggs and _whistling Journey in their kitchen_ , and it’s maybe not so bad.

Harry forces himself out of bed and to the washroom for a wee. He splashes his face with cold water, brushes his teeth half-heartedly at the sink and changes into a clean pair of jogging shorts paired with an old Queen t-shirt, smoothing his hair back with a black headband. (The only thing he hates more than running is running with a mouthful-slash-eyeful of sweaty curls.) He feels marginally more human and alert as he walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge, considering its contents before grabbing an assortment of fruits and some wheat grass.

“What’s it going to be today?” Liam asks, glancing over at Harry from the counter where he’s smoothing cashew butter onto wheat crackers for Harry. It’s not exactly eggs and bacon, but Harry spies freshly cut strawberries, pineapple and cantaloupe there, so it’s at least an upgrade from the cardboard-flavoured sports bars that Liam used to buy him.

“Don’t quite know yet, but it’s going to be very delicious,” Harry decides, voice still gravelly from sleep, and gets to work on Liam’s morning shake.

They’ve fallen into a Sunday morning tradition of sorts. Liam makes Harry breakfast and, in return, Harry blends Liam increasingly strange, experimental concoctions that pass as energy-boosting smoothies. Today the blend winds up being an interesting seaweed colour (and texture) that even Harry seems reluctant about as he passes it off to Liam, but Liam beams and accepts the drink with a grateful peck.

Harry watches Liam take the first gulp with some difficulty, all cinched eyebrows and vaguely watering eyes; he swallows so hard you’d think he was downing broken glass, but then he’s smiling thankfully at Harry, not even missing a beat as he goes on and on about how his mum sent him this email about _flying penguins_ , and Harry can’t help but smile.

Maybe it’s going to be an alright twenty-four hour time period afterall.

\--

True to Liam’s word, they’re done with their respective breakfasts and out of the door before 9:00, and it’s not long after that that Harry is doubled-up by the kerb, chest heaving as he holds onto his knees and tries not to bring up his fruit and wheaties. Forget what he said. It’s going to be a terrible day. It already _is_ a terrible day.

Liam is standing by his side and jogging in place, clearly not wanting to lose the inhumane momentum he’s set for them. “C’mon, Styles, don’t be pathetic! We’ve been running barely an hour and we’re almost back to the flat. Are you really going to do this to me, Haz? You’re so embarrassing, c'mon! You need some discipline is what you need. Drop and give me twenty.”

Harry groans and straightens up, wobbling in his spot for a moment before dropping down onto his bum on the sidewalk, staring up at Liam beseechingly. “You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, not a bloody _drill sergeant._ ”

Liam rolls his eyes, but his lips turn up in a fond smirk. He finally stops jogging -- just _watching him_ was making Harry’s stomach churn -- and walks over to Harry, standing above him with a foot on each side of his torso. He plops himself down into Harry’s lap, eliciting a surprised _oof_ from Harry before he breathes a sigh of relief. Oh, blessed break time. He wraps his arms around Liam’s middle and, considering it’s 9:45 in the morning on a Sunday and most sane people are still asleep in their homes, Liam holds onto the sides of Harry’s neck and presses a succession of firm, sweaty kisses to his lips.

Liam swipes his mouth over Harry's, smirking against it quietly. “You know what today is?”

Harry pulls his head back in Liam’s grip, affronted. “ _Excuse_ me, Liam. We said we wouldn’t talk about it.”

Liam shifts backwards off of Harry’s lap to settle his arse on the pavement between Harry’s thighs instead, legs bent at the knees where they bracket him in, the two of them forming a four-legged spider. Liam smoothes his hand up the inside of Harry’s calf.

“I know, I know. But. Hazza. It’s our six month anniversary,” Liam says in a soft voice, like maybe he’s in awe of the whole thing.

Harry squeezes his thighs against Liam’s sides affectionately, unable to contain his lop-sided smile. “You’re so stupid, Li. I thought you’d at least last until afternoon before breaking.”

Liam sighs and his brows furrow, bottom lip jutting out. He looks entirely too guilty. “That’s not all,” he admits. “I -- I got us something.”

Harry squawks, smacking Liam’s knee. “We said no presents!”

“Well, technically it’s not a _present_. It’s something for the _both of us_ , and it’s an experience, not a material object, so really--”

“Oh, shush.” Harry holds his hand out. “C’mon, then, give it over.”

Liam grins. He lifts his hips off the ground and buries his hand in his pocket, settling back down to hand Harry a small envelope.

It says Ticketmaster across the front.

Harry examines it for a quick moment before realization dawns on him, his gaze flying up to Liam’s. “You didn’t. You _couldn’t_ have. It was sold out.”

“Nothing a lot of ill-advised spending and some scalpers couldn’t fix,” Liam says as Harry pulls two Radiohead tickets for that night’s concert out of the envelope, grinning from ear to ear as he realizes that not only did Liam buy them overpriced scalped tickets, he bought them overpriced general admission _pit tickets._

“Li, these must’ve cost a fortune. Are we going to be evicted for this?”

Liam grins, looking amused. “We’ll make rent, babe, but maybe we can cut down Jaffa Cake consumption by half for a few months. God, scalpers are a nightmare, though. After I got the tickets in the mail, I sent this one bloke a very strongly-worded email.”

Harry beams, because _of course_ Liam would try to chastise a scalper on the Internet. “What did it say?”

“Something to the effect of ‘get a proper job, you dicks’.”

Harry barks a laugh. He squeezes Liam between his thighs again, studying his face with a goofy smile. “You know, today when you were on the phone and your alarms wouldn’t stop going off... I was planning to kill you.”

“Were you?”

Harry nods. “Proper, like, thinking of logistics and how to make it less painful for everyone involved.”

“Thoughtful, babe.”

“I know, but. I think maybe I’ll keep you around for another few months,” Harry decides, “only if you don’t mind too much.”

Liam bites his lip, smiling around around his teeth and squeezing Harry in return. “Lucky for you, I don’t mind at all.”

\--

Harry’s muscles are unbearably sore by the time he’s laid out on his back, naked and in a sweat from Liam working him open on confident fingers.

The late afternoon sun is warm where it sneaks through their bedroom curtains and scatters over their skin in an array of soft shapes. Harry still feels the residual burn of their morning run all along his legs; the ache of it dull at the tops of his thighs yet sharp in the line of his calves.

Liam crooks three fingers against Harry’s prostate and Harry keens at the sudden sensation, eyes rolling back in his head. The tension in his bones seeps out of him in waves and the fierce transition from pain to pleasure is dizzying, Harry’s toes curling in the covers at each of Liam’s sides. He needs more.

Liam is kneeling between the spread of Harry’s legs, so all Harry has to do is press his feet into the mattress for leverage and hitch his hips upwards in one sharp movement, forcing Liam’s fingers to slip deeper inside of him. He can feel them down to the last knuckle and his breath hitches right before he lets it out on a shaky exhale. He laughs incredulously as his head swims, only faintly aware of Liam tilting his head to press a soothing kiss to the inside of Harry’s knee as he rubs him from the inside out, his thumb trailing around Harry’s hot, swollen rim.

Harry drops his hips back to the mattress, throwing one arm over his forehead and curling the other against his stomach, fingers kneading at his own belly as he braces himself for what’s to come. He doesn’t have enough time to prepare before Liam is slipping his fingers out of him and ducking his head between Harry’s thighs, holding him open with his thumbs as he licks deep inside of him without warning, burrowing his tongue well past Harry’s rim and sucking lightly at his hole.

Harry squeaks shamelessly, biting down onto the inside of his elbow and pressing his fingers deeper against his own stomach, sucking in a breath so that it goes concave. He wills himself to keep from riding Liam’s face, knowing that Liam likes to set the pace -- likes it when Harry just takes what he’s given and patiently waits for Liam to bring him to his release. Liam rewards him with a light nip of teeth at his rim before working his tongue back inside of him. Harry see stars with the way Liam pins his hips down and forces him to fall apart on his mouth, his tongue feeling out the space his fingers had created moments ago. Harry’s thighs tremble and all but squeeze against the sides of Liam’s face.

“Now, now, now. Please, Li, now,” Harry breathes, because his cock is leaking against his stomach in a steady stream of pre-come, jumping against his skin with every hot squirm of Liam’s tongue inside of him, and he doesn’t think he’s gonna last.

Liam gives Harry's clenched ring of muscle a final bite, sharp enough to make Harry squeal and twist away from the sensation, clamping his thighs against it, but Liam forces his legs back open to crawl up the length of his body and press a kiss to his lips. Harry reaches between them and takes Liam in hand, stroking him twice before guiding him to where he’s been licked and fucked open, and Liam presses inside of him in a long, steady thrust, Harry feeling every inch of him with a shiver and groan.

Harry slips his hand out from between them in favour of curling his fingers in the warm, sweaty dip of Liam’s lower back, letting out an involuntarily sob as Liam pushes the rest of the way inside of him, rolling their hips together. Harry wraps his legs around him and interlocks their thighs, feeling his face flush red as the steady build of his orgasm washes over him. He wishes he could stave it off for longer, but there’s hours before the concert yet and he knows he’ll have time to savour the feeling again and again, that Liam will fuck him until Harry’s too sensitive to be touched.

With a dig of his nails into the small of Liam’s back, Harry’s twisting off the sheets and coming between their bodies, cock untouched save for the smooth rub of Liam’s torso against it. He's too overwhelmed to make a sound, choking on nothing. Liam fucks him through it without missing a beat, murmuring reassurances into his neck until Harry finally comes back to himself with a shudder, releasing a shaky whine of of relief.

Harry tilts his head back mindlessly, exposing the column of his throat to Liam and Liam takes it as an invitation to suck a bruise into the sweaty base of it, the sensation tearing a thin whimper from Harry's lips. Liam's rhythm starts to falter, becoming sharper and more erratic, and Harry lets out a weak series of encouraging sounds, whispers _please, Li_ as Liam mouths against the spit-slick skin of his neck, and then Liam's thrusting into him impossibly deeper, once, twice, three times, punching out little gasps of surprise from Harry's chest -- _oh, oh, oh_ \-- before Liam stills all the way inside of him with a groan, letting himself go.

\--

In an unexpected turn of events, they both wind up all but sloshed before Radiohead even takes the stage.

They do a few celebratory shots before they leave the flat. Harry suggests three each, six in total to represent each month they’ve been together, and Liam stupidly agrees, making sure to be generous with the vodka he pours into each shot glass. Generous enough that Harry’s lips begin to go numb as soon as they’re in the taxi to the amphitheatre, and when he tells Liam this, Liam attempts to kiss the feeling back into Harry’s mouth very sensually. With tongue. It’s quite the pleasant experience for everyone involved, really, except maybe the taxi driver who clears his throat uncomfortably to no avail.

They find the bar as soon as they arrive at the venue, and before long, Liam’s on his third pint while Harry sips on his second gin and tonic, eyes glassy red and smile quivering with how buzzed he is. They probably should've eaten more things throughout the day to help soak up the booze, but it's too late now and Harry doesn't mind too much. He has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing at the endearing sight of his boyfriend every time Liam hiccups, because he knows Liam takes those sorts of things to heart when he’s under the influence -- like a small wounded puppy. Or a large injured labrador. Harry giggles around his straw. He’s dating the human equivalent of a guard dog.

They stay at the back for the openers -- an eclectic sort of electro-pop duo -- but Liam locks his fingers with Harry’s toward the end of their set, tugging him through the crowd. He manages to lead them all the way to the front right before Radiohead is meant to come on, and Harry feels his stomach swoop at being led toward the stage by the hand, curled against Liam’s arm amidst the crush of bodies. He feels like he’s sixteen years old, awkward and gangly, and Liam is the most popular boy in high school and he’s Harry’s very own sweetheart. He wonders, briefly, what his life would’ve been like if he’d met Liam at school. If he would’ve come out to himself sooner, just to date him. If they would’ve gone to prom together and if they would still be together now in their twenties, holding hands at a rock gig.

When they reach the barricade, Liam pulls Harry in front of him despite Harry being a few inches taller. Liam presses along the length of Harry’s spine and takes both of Harry’s hands in his own, wraps their collective arms around Harry’s middle from behind and presses a gentle line of kisses to the back of his neck, murmuring into it. “You good?”

The drinks make Harry feel warm from the inside out, weightless and giddy, but Liam’s arms around him and Liam’s chin pressed to the back of his shoulder send a distinct flush of heat up the column of his throat and to the tips of his ears. He nods at his words and leans back in his arms, tilting his head back against Liam’s.

“Babe,” Harry says, watching as the road crew clears the stage, the crowd around them starting a chant for the band’s imminent entrance. Harry feels his world get smaller and smaller until it’s just his heart beating against his ribcage, Liam pressed along his back, his curious “hm?” sending vibrations all through Harry where they’re touching.

“Six months,” Harry says simply, vision blurred at the edges and he can feel Liam’s slow, drunken smile spread against the back of his shirt and then there's a gentle kiss of acknowledgement at the top of his spine.

“Six months,” Liam says quietly. The lights dim and the crowd roars and Liam’s arms tighten around Harry’s, squeezing his middle and holding him close.


End file.
